Stupid Bloody Englishmen
by TheBoe
Summary: Maxwell has a supreme gift for messing things up, and he takes it out on Miss Fran Fine... even Niles (AKA Captain Sarcasm) can't save the day this time.
1. Bugger, bugger, bugger

Hey all! I know this isn't exactly a popular area to write in, but I don't particularly care. . . This is a spin-off of "The Thing," and how I imagined Maxwell might have reacted under slightly different circumstances. "The Nanny" is not mine, nor any gorgeous British guys employed therein, obviously. Please R&R!

As usual, Maxwell had buggered things up.

It had not truly been his fault at the beginning; Miss Fine had strode into his office and perched herself on the edge of his desk as she had on countless occasions, smoothing her skirt and smiling sexily at him, her cat-like brown eyes suggestive and flirty.

Of course, he never minded _that_ part.

But then she brought up that topic again. . . The Thing.

"So Mr. Sheffield," Fran began in her annoyingly nasal voice that he never seemed to get enough of, "you know, I've been thinking."

"Oh?" Maxwell replied, wearily setting down the newspaper that boldly said "'CATS' HIT RECORD NUMBER OF SHOWS! OPENING IN TWELVE NEW CITIES!" He defiantly put his coffee cup down on top of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber's face and glanced up at his nanny. "What about, Miss Fine?"

She slowly crossed her long legs, enjoying the way his eyes widened slightly. "Oh, ya know. . . the Thing."

Maxwell silently groaned and prepared himself for a battle. "Ah. Yes." And, feeling he had not been articulate enough, said, "That."

"I just don't understand why!" Fran exclaimed, staring at him imploringly. "Obviously you've got to feel something for me if you said you loved me, so why do you keep stringing me along like this?! Why'd you have to go and take it back?!"

"Miss Fine, I have already told you, I said what I said up there, in that place, under those circumstances!" He got to his feet and started pacing agitatedly. "I don't see why you have to keep beating a dead horse! It's over and done with! I told you that I can't be with you!"

"I—" Fran started to say, but looked suspiciously at the door. Picking up Maxwell's coffee cup, she strode over to it and splashed a bit of the scalding beverage through the keyhole. Both of them heard a distinct "AUGH!" from the other side and the sound of rushing footsteps, which was obviously Niles running to get the coffee out of his ear. Fran then turned back to Maxwell, downing the rest of the coffee and slamming the cup back on his desk.

"You said you loved me," she cried, "and then you took it away! If you're thinking that before you die, then you've got to actually feel that way about me! Why won't you just TELL ME THAT YOU LOVE ME?! Are you that afraid?! Am I that intimidating?!" She grabbed his jacket and yanked him toward her. "WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING WRONG?!"

Maxwell could only stare at her a few moments before finding his voice. "Please don't make me do this, Miss Fine. You don't know what you're asking. Anything between us just presents too many complications!"

Fran let go of Maxwell and glared at him in disgust. "You're worried about the children," she said in a faintly mocking British accent. "You're worried that we'll break up and that'll ruin everything! You want to stay loyal to your wife—"

"Leave her out of this!" Maxwell suddenly said, anger blazing up inside of him. "Don't talk about that! You didn't know Sarah! You don't know anything about her!"

"That's what this is about, isn't it?" Fran exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "You're just afraid that you're betraying her if you end up with me, aren't you? You'll be loyal to her forever! Do you think this is how she wanted you to end up? Miserable and alone until the day you die?! I've been here for three years. You act like you want to be with me, then you change your mind. This isn't fair to me, Mr. Sheffield, and it's not fair to you either! You think—"

"At least I have someone to stay loyal to, Miss Fine! I owe her that much!" Maxwell yelled. "So I'm attracted to you! I'm not going to do anything about it! I CAN'T do anything about it! I refuse to!"

"Doesn't it ever bother you?" Fran hissed, stepping toward him. "That I go date tons of other guys? How am I supposed to find somebody else if you keep messing with my heart? Did you do THAT to your wife, Mr. Sheffield? Did you mess around with _her_ heart, too?!"

"Miss Fine," Maxwell said in a low, shaking voice, pointing at the doorway, "get out of my office."

Fran's eyes widened, and she actually found herself speechless. "What?" she finally managed to say.

"Get out. . . of my office," he said again through gritted teeth. There was a cold fury inside of him, rising so quickly that he found he almost wanted to hit Fran. "Get out of here. Never talk to me about this again."

Stunned, Fran just stood there.

"GET OUT!" Maxwell suddenly shouted, and Fran let out a yelp and scurried toward the doorway, pulling it open and tripping over Niles. The butler was looking almost as shocked as the nanny, but Maxwell did not want to see it; he ran over to the door and slammed it so hard that the paintings on his wall tilted.

He turned around and stared at his desk, his chest rising and falling heavily.

He should not have yelled at Miss Fine.

But she had been talking about Sarah as though she KNEW her! She had the nerve to say that he had hurt his wife, yanked her heartstrings!

. . . But he yelled at Miss Fine.

Yelled at her.

Maxwell leaned back against the wall and slowly slid down to the floor, not even caring about Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber and the rest of the world.

* * *

Fran was hysterical, tossing things into her suitcase at random. Niles was behind her, trying to calm her down.

"Miss Fine, please don't do this!" he cried, watching as Fran yanked open a drawer and pulled out a multitude of lacy bras. "Why are you doing this? How is this different from anything that's happened before?!"

"He hates me, Niles," Fran sobbed, pulling out what seemed like the many thousands of shoes from her closet. "I pushed him too far! I talked to him about Sarah, and I asked him if she would've wanted him to be alone and miserable, and he just went berserk!"

Niles groaned and covered his eyes. If there was one thing bound to upset Mr. Sheffield, it was the subject of his late wife. And Fran definitely had the talent for upsetting her employer enough without even broaching that topic of discussion.

"I've got to get out of here," Fran moaned, zipping her bags shut and getting to her feet. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her beautiful face was pale. "I can't stay here any longer. I just can't look at him again." She grabbed Niles and hugged him tightly. "Thanks for everything, sweetie," she mumbled.

"Miss Fine!" Niles shouted, but Fran had pushed by him and was dragging her suitcases down the stairs. In the living room, Brighton, Maggie and Gracie were watching a movie. They looked up at her, puzzled.

"Going to visit your mom, Fran?" Brighton asked. "You want any help?"

Fran shook her head. It was about then they noticed she was crying.

"Fran, what's wrong?!" Maggie exclaimed, getting to her feet and hurrying over. "What happened?"

"Your _father_ happened," Fran whispered, before hugging each child tightly. "I love you three, all right? Please, take care of yourselves. . . Maggie, make sure not to date guys who are more than five years older than you. . . Gracie, remember that you don't need to see any therapists. . . and Brighton? Remember how I told you to plagiarize your papers without getting caught, okay? I love you guys. . ."

"What?" Gracie gasped, standing there helplessly as Fran hefted her bags and walked resolutely toward the door. "No, Fran, NO! You can't leave!"

The children looked horror-struck. Fran's shoulders were shaking as she opened the door and stepped through it. She did not even look back, but then they realized that she could not; she was crying too hard.

The door shut behind her, and Nanny Fran Fine was gone.

Niles stared at the door, and then sprinted back up the stairwell, hearing the children's sobbing echoing behind him. He marched toward Mr. Sheffield's office and pushed it open without even knocking, something he had never done in all his years of working there.

Maxwell was seated at his desk again, though he was not working; his head was in his hands and he appeared to be in some sort of daze.

"I hope you're happy, sir," Niles said furiously, his voice cold and venomous. "Miss Fine has left us, thanks to what you said. And it doesn't look like she is _ever_ coming back. So I hope you're pretty bloody pleased with yourself!"

The butler spun on his heel and slammed the door, not even bothering to witness Mr. Sheffield's terrified expression. Maxwell stared at the door in despair.

"Bugger," he whispered, his voice catching. "Oh, _bugger_."

More to come soon!


	2. Ralph Lauren Vs Motel 6

Hello again! Wow, already three reviewers... That makes me _quite_ happy! Thank you all for reading! (And I just wanted to tell you, I don't know what happened with Maxwell's first wife, so I just made it up.)

Fran stumbled down Broadway, clutching her handbag and duffle bag, and rolling her suitcase along. Queens was looking rather dismal, and she suspected it was just reflecting how she felt inside: cold, wretched, and miserable.

"Damn you, Mistah Sheffield," she repeated over and over again inside her head, like a mantra. "Damn you, damn you, damn you..." Her high-heeled shoe landed in a puddle, soaking her stockings. She leapt back with a small cry, falling against a beefy man who seriously looked like he would skin her alive for jostling him.

Smiling nervously, Fran quickly apologized and hurried over to a small stoop, where she sat down and tried to collect herself. Her brain kept drawing blanks as the gray sky above her started pouring rain.

All things considered, she had never been in a worse fix.

_Honestly,_ she thought, heaving her suitcase onto the stoop next to her. _Mr. Sheffield was just going to play with my heart until I died. I can't deal with his indecision anymore._

Shivering, she hugged herself and tried to simmer down. She gazed up at the sky in despair, hovering on the edges of righteous anger and downright misery.

Well, I guess I'll just sit here until I cool off, and then I'll— 

She paused, the implication of her thoughts dawning on her.

_--And then I'll do what? I can't go home to the Sheffields. I guess I just seceded from the family._

Horror was creeping up her like a wave. _Mr. Sheffield just hurt me,_ she thought, her breathing coming quickly. _There is no way I can ever see him again._

_But the kids,_ she thought, the sadness enveloping her. Maxwell's greatest fear had come true: his and Fran's relationship had ruined the home the kids had grown used to.

_And I didn't even get any action!_ Fran whined inside of her head, pouting. _I didn't even get the bing-bing!_

Leaning back, Fran sighed. "I can't go to the Sheffields," she murmured to herself. "Can't get the bing-bing. And there's no way in Barbara Streisand's world I'm going back to Ma's." She chewed her lip in thought. "I can't bother Val, she still lives with her parents..."

And that left...

Nothing.

Yay.

Taking a deep breath, Fran got to her feet and surveyed the rain-splattered street. There was a cheap hotel the next block down... It looked like she was staying there for the night. Grimacing, Fran the ex-nanny ducked out into the rain, gasped as it immediately soaked her, and sprinted haphazardly down the sidewalk, almost knocking over an old lady with her suitcases.

Using a wad of cash she had gotten from Mr. Sheffield, Fran paid for a room in the dingy Motel 6, dragged her suitcases through the doorway, and stared at her Spartan surroundings.

"Well, it ain't Ralph Lauren sheets and a room with a balcony," she said, shrugging, "but I guess it'll do."

* * *

"Daddy?"

"Daddy, look at me!"

"Look at me, Daddy! Watch me, Daddy! Look what I can do!"

"Why aren't you watching me, Daddy?"

"Daddy?"

"Daddy, where's Mommy?"

Maxwell Sheffield sat numbly in his chair, in his office, in his beautiful, empty house. Niles had taken the children out for dinner; none of them could really talk to their father after he had driven Fran away. So Maxwell just sat there, his glasses on the desk in front of him. He had not even bothered to turn on the lights and actually chose to sit there in the dark, watching the sun steadily set outside the window.

"Daddy, why isn't Mommy coming home?"

"What do you mean, Mommy's gone away?"

The old, dull pain seemed to be gathering inside his chest. This was exactly what he had feared. He had alienated Miss Fine, and now she had left him. She would never bother him again in her nasally voice, never hop onto his desk again, never drive him insane with those dangerously short outfits she wore...

He got up and began to pace feverishly.

_I didn't even do anything with her,_ he thought, _and this has still happened. It's still ruined this household._

His eyes fell upon a picture of his late wife, Sarah, and he felt the familiar clenching of his heart. Suddenly, he was transported back in time.

"_She's asking for you, Mr. Sheffield," the doctor said, his eyes wearing the look of someone who has had to say that too many times before. "She doesn't have much time... The injuries she sustained from the accident are too much for us to handle. She won't survive the night."_

_Stunned and in a daze, Maxwell ran after the doctor and burst into Sarah's hospital room, staring in horror at the tubes and wires and pale wife under thin blankets. Her eyes were closed. Breathing shallowly, Maxwell dropped to his knees next to the bed and grasped his wife's fragile, bandaged hand._

"_Sarah?" he whispered. "Sarah, my love, can you hear me?"_

_Remarkably, her eyes fluttered open. "Max," she mouthed, unable to speak. _

"_Don't strain yourself, darling," Maxwell said, speaking at random, babbling; any word was a good word, because that was one more word he had with the love of his life._

"_Max," Sarah breathed, trying to speak. "Dear, take care of the kids. Tell them I love them."_

_Maxwell Sheffield, the mighty Broadway producer, nodded like a bobble-head. "Yes, yes, of course I will."_

"_And you..." she whispered, stroking the side of his face. "You make sure you take care of yourself, Maxwell. Don't worry, all right? You'll be fine. Do not worry."_

_He stared at her. How could he not worry? His wife had just been hit by a drunk driver and was about to leave him alone in the world. _

_Sarah smiled at him. "Love you," she breathed, and then closed her eyes. _

_Flat line. Gone. Maxwell Sheffield, alone. Forced to return to a home that had once been full of laughter, now empty but full of children, all of who wanted the attention of a dead Englishman. _

"_Daddy? Watch me, Daddy! Why aren't you watching, Daddy?"_

"_Daddy?"_

"_Where've you gone, Daddy?"_

Maxwell wrenched himself back to the present, shivering and shaking as he settled himself back into his chair. _Where have I gone?_ he asked himself. _Where did I go? I died and I came back when Fran started to work here._

He let his head fall back onto the headrest of the chair and closed his eyes. _But I don't even date the woman, and she still manages to mess up everything here,_ he thought. There was a nagging feeling of guilt in his stomach, and he angrily shoved it away. _If I can't even work in the same house with her without this happening, how am I supposed to BE with her?_

The thought had materialized before he could stop it. He froze.

..._Be with her?_

_Am I saying that I actually WANT to—_

_Of course not._

_Never._

..._Right?_

_Bloody hell, NO! Sarah wouldn't want me to be with somebody else._

He covered his face with his hands and rubbed his temples.

_You're feeling guilty, Maxwell. You know Sarah wouldn't mind Fran. None of this was Fran's fault, either. _

_Of course it was._

_Shut up, you!_

_Helloooo, Maxwell! _

_I thought I'd left you back in England!_

_It would appear not, sir. Would you really betray your late wife like that?_

_It's not betrayal. Fran's practically their surrogate mother. _

It was a good chunk of time before Maxwell realized that he was arguing with himself. Grinding his teeth, he let out a groan.

_You were wrong, Maxwell. Admit it. _

_So what if I was?_

_You just drove Miss Fine out of your life and it is ALL your fault. _

..._I know it is._

_Then do something about it!_

Maxwell got to his feet and stared out at the dark sky.

_I can't do anything about it now,_ he thought to himself. _Miss Fine probably doesn't even want to talk to me. She's probably gone to her mother's... She won't want to talk to me. I'll wait until tomorrow, when she's simmered down._

_Then I'll talk to her._


	3. Pancakes

C.C. walked into the Sheffield's kitchen in all of her blonde glory, stopping short as she came across Niles. The butler was mixing pancake batter in a large bowl, but seemed to be quite distracted; he was stirring it so hard that huge drops of it were flying from the bowl around the room.

"Well, Niles," C.C. said dryly, "all that batter on your face is doing wonders for your appearance."

Niles glanced up in irritation, wiping a bit of batter from his forehead. "I got the idea from you. Lord knows what _you_ use for makeup."

C.C. was about to retort when Maxwell came thundering down the back stairwell. His gray-streaked hair was awry, and he looked absolutely exhausted. Apparently, he had not slept all night.

"Any word from Fran, Niles?" he asked breathlessly. The butler gave him an icy glare and continued to mash the pancake batter.

"Not since you completely ruined her life, sir."

"What is this?" C.C. asked, staring at them both. "What happened to Nanny Fine? Is she gone?" Her eyes widened. "Is she _dead?!_"

"Good heavens, no!" Maxwell exclaimed, raising his eyebrows.

"Damn," C.C. muttered, snapping her fingers.

"Mr. Sheffield upset her so much that she ran off," Niles muttered, looking like he was about to break the spoon he was using in half.

C.C.'s face lit up. "You mean she's gone?!" She immediately sidled over to Maxwell and bumped her hip against his. "We've got work to do, stud," she said in a low, sexy voice. Niles groaned.

"I can't work now, C.C.," Maxwell said distractedly, running his fingers through his hair. It stood up in all directions, making him look like a crazy homeless person. He sank down in one of the kitchen chairs. "Niles, what do you—"

The kitchen door slamming open and revealing his three children, all of whom were looking furious, cut him off. Maggie marched right up to her father, her pretty face contorted in anger.

"Dad, I don't know what you said to Fran, but you'd better get your butt out there and apologize to her!"

The complete brass of this outburst actually rendered Maxwell speechless for a few moments. "Excuse me?!" he finally cried, staring at her. C.C. hurriedly said she would get to work on her own before bolting from the room, grinning like a maniac.

"She's right, Dad," Brighton said. He crossed his arms over his chest. "You know you're wrong. Fran never did anything to you."

"Where do you—"

"Dad, just listen to them," Gracie pleaded. "Please, or we're going to run away and find her ourselves."

"Now, that's a bit extreme, don't you think?" Maxwell said, frowning. "She's probably just gone to her mother's. Or Val's. She doesn't want to talk to me now, anyway."

As if on cue, the back door opened to reveal Fran's rather porky mother, Sylvia. "Gooooood morning, Sheffields!" she trilled, smiling at them all. "I smell bacon!"

They all stared at her. Sylvia did not even notice, but walked over to Niles and looked at the enormous bowl with the pancake batter.

"Niles," she said, "that's only enough for one person."

"But the recipe said it served five people!" Niles protested.

Sylvia merely gave him a look before the butler sighed and went to find more bowls.

"Sylvia," Maxwell began hesitantly, glancing at her warily, "um... Is Fran at your house?"

"My house? Nah," Sylvia said thickly (she had grabbed a croissant from the bread box and had unceremoniously shoved it into her mouth. "Morty's sick. He has some sort of gall bladder infection. You know, he's been having the worst gas imaginable—"

"That's lovely, Sylvia," Maxwell said, shooting a fleeting look at his children. With a meaningful nod to her father, Maggie picked up the phone and disappeared into the next room. Sylvia looked at Maxwell.

"Why? Do you not know where she is?"

"Well, she went out last night," Maxwell said in a tight voice, "and she wasn't here this morning. I just want to make sure she's all right."

The older Jewish lady gave him a piercing glare. "Mr. Sheffield, you didn't fight with her, did you?" she asked dangerously. Maxwell shrank beneath her gaze.

"Of... of course not," he stammered. "Er—nothing of the sort. Maybe? Sort of?"

Maggie sidled back into the room. "She's not with Val, Dad, _or_ Grandma Yetta," she whispered. Obviously she'd hoped that Sylvia would not hear, but the woman did anyway.

"Not with Val?" Sylvia echoed, getting to her feet. "Fran has no other friends! Where the hell would she go?"

"Did she have a boyfriend? Maybe she eloped or something," Maggie suggested. They all looked at each other before saying, "Naaaaah."

"Oh, dear," Maxwell groaned, resting his head in his hands. Sylvia grabbed his lapels and yanked him forward.

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY DAUGHTER?!" she yelled. Niles leapt forward and pried Sylvia away, patting her back awkwardly as the woman suddenly burst into a storm of tears.

"I'm _dying_, Niles!" she wailed, swooning dramatically. "Maxwell's killed me! MEDS! I NEED MY MEDICATION!"

Rolling his eyes, Niles went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Hershey's Syrup. He handed it to her with a spoon, trying not to gag as Sylvia tossed the spoon aside and decided to drink the chocolate straight from the bottle.

"Please, Sylvia!" he said, taking it back. "That's strong stuff!"

"I can handle it," Sylvia retorted angrily. "Of _course_ I can handle it! You Englishmen can't hold your medicine!"

"That's enough! Please, everybody, we have to think of where Fran would be," Maxwell shouted.

They all fell silent, thinking.

"She wouldn't be with other relatives," Sylvia mused, tapping her chin. "I'm the only one who still talks to her. Liz and Leesa wouldn't let her come over after she broke their chandelier..."

"No friends besides Val," Niles murmured. "Yetta, maybe?"

"No, I tried there," Maggie told him.

"No boyfriend."

"No other job... yet."

"Yet?" Maxwell repeated, looking panic-stricken. "Where else would she work?!"

"This is Manhattan, sir!" Niles said loudly. "It's not like there's a shortage of work for beautiful women like Fran Fine!"

They all looked at each other. The truth was, they had no idea where Fran might be.

"Oh, bloody hell!" Maxwell exclaimed, getting up and grabbing his coat. "I'll be back later."

"Where are you going?" Niles asked.

"Out," Maxwell replied shortly, walking to the door and slamming it behind him.

There was a ringing silence following Mr. Sheffield's departure, before Sylvia spoke. "Oh, Niles," she said, her eyes tearing up again, "where do you think she is? She could be anywhere, all alone..."

"Don't worry, Sylvia," Niles said warmly, placing a teetering stack of pancakes in front of her. Sylvia almost could not see him around it. "Fran's a resourceful girl. I'm sure she's absolutely fine."

* * *

Well, she had managed it. Fran had no idea what to do, where to go, or who to bother. All she knew was that she could not talk to any of her normal people, if she did not want them blabbing to Mr. Sheffield.

_Clever,_ she thought angrily. _Really, really clever. Now what am I supposed to do? No job, running out of money, and living in a Motel 6. And this is only the end of the first day on my own! I'm just brilliant!_

Fran walked down Broadway, shivering slightly through her thin jacket. She supposed she ought to find a job; her funds were running low. But it was growing late, and the stores would surely be closing soon... Sighing deeply, she let her brown eyes wander the streets.

She was really lonely.

Suddenly, more than ever, she wanted to run into Mr. Sheffield's office, saucily hop onto his desk, annoy him. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, maybe leap on him, pin him to the couch, and kiss him until they both passed out. Suppose she attacked him? Maybe he wouldn't resist. And if he did, well... people often underestimated the sexual power of Fran Fine. She may not have used it since she met Maxwell, but it was there, like a tiger lying in wait, patient for the moment of the pounce.

The pounce upon a certain gray-streaked individual, to be perfectly specific.

_Oh, but wait,_ she thought sarcastically, _I forgot... Maxwell doesn't want a relationship. He doesn't want to betray his wife. He loves me, he loves me not. Meh, meh, meh! God, if the Olympics had a category for indecision, he'd get the gold medal for Britain. _

Her thoughts weren't helping her. She felt even lonelier than before.

Glancing up, she saw the warm, inviting, flashing neon lights:

Frankie's Bar.

She checked her pockets and saw that she had about forty dollars left. She had already paid for her room through the week, and it wasn't like she was spending her money on much else... And if she got a job tomorrow, she wouldn't have to worry, right?

Right.

And besides... she really, really needed a drink.


	4. Getting Buzzed on Water

"I'm all alooooone," Fran sang in her nasally voice, watching blearily as the shapes in the bar doubled before her eyes. "There's noooobody heeeere, besiiiide me..."

She was seated in Frankie's Bar. The business was booming tonight, and where normally Fran would have jumped right back into the Meat Market, she was content to sit miserably at the bar, downing shot after shot of vodka. "I'm alllll alooooone..."

"Thank God," the bartender—Frankie—muttered as he set up some glasses behind the counter. "Then we'd have more horrible singing."

Empty glasses were littered around Fran, who was growing tipsier by the second. "Noooobody knows the trouble I've seen..."

"Like you've seen trouble," Frankie snapped, throwing his dishrag over his shoulder. He was a thin, rather respectable-looking man who seemed a bit out of place behind the bar. He looked more like an insurance adjustor, or an algebra teacher. "Come on, dear, what's so bad in your life? You're gorgeous, you're thin, but you obviously weren't blessed with a singing voice."

Fran, with her eyes slightly crossed, leaned forward. "Honey," she slurred, "are you making a—a—whassit called..." She snapped her fingers a few times. "You know, a pass at me?"

"Good Lord, no," Frankie said, shocked, as if somebody had just inquired as to the color of his boxers. "I was just making an observation." He leaned against the counter, staring at Fran through narrowed eyes. "So what's a beautiful girl like you doing getting trashed in my bar?"

"It's that _stupid_ Mistah Sheffield," Fran grumbled, trying to push her hair back and almost falling off the stool in the process. "Stupid British guy..."

"Well, the British are pretty reserved," Frankie said reasonably.

"Not like Mistah Sheffield," Fran said, her voice earnest. "THREE YEARS I've worked for him!" She held up four fingers for emphasis. "THREE FREAKIN' YEARS! I raised his kids, and what thanks do I get?! Nothin'. Nothin' at all."

Frankie raised an eyebrow. "You've got a thing for this Sheffield?"

"You would too, if you saw this guy!" Fran exclaimed, throwing her hands up and knocking a few glasses over.

"Somehow I doubt that," Frankie replied.

"And I _know_ he likes me," Fran wailed, "but he's a widower. Wife croaked years ago and he won't date nobody. _Nobody._ So I told him to make a choice, and he said he'd never love me... so I left." She looked around blearily. "And here I am."

"So you're out of a job, then?" Frankie asked, handing her a glass of water. He had already suspected that Fran had had far too much to drink, and had swapped the vodka for water a little earlier. Fran had not even noticed; she downed the glass, smacking her lips contentedly.

"Listen, Frankie, this is great stuff! What is it?!"

"Um—vodka," Frankie said, grinning. "A foreign kind."

"But yeah, I'm out of a job," Fran said. She sighed. "I have got _no_ idea what to do now."

Frankie stared at her thoughtfully for a few moments, as if appraising her. "What'd you say your name was?"

"Fran," Fran told him. "Fran Fine. Woulda been Fran Sheffield if _somebody_ hadn't been such a stupid gray-streaked pigeon!"

Choosing not to comment on the odd choice of words, Frankie went on. "Fran, you're a very beautiful woman. I know somebody who would be very interested in taking pictures of you."

"What, like nude modeling?" Fran asked, trying to sound appalled and failing. She actually looked rather interested. "Listen, mistah, I've got morals and dignity and... and..." She tried to come up with another word, but was far too drunk. "...and fruitcake!"

Frankie smiled. "This is perfectly legitimate. Come back here tomorrow about twenty minutes before I open, and I'll introduce you to your new employer." Eyeing Fran warily, he took a felt-tip marker and scribbled the instructions on Fran's arm so she would see it when she sobered up. "Can you get home all right? Want me to call a cab?"

"I'm FINE," Fran said loudly, getting off her stool and falling to the floor. "I'll see ya tomorrow, Bobby!"

"Frankie," Frankie called after her, watching the inebriated woman stumble into the dark street. He could hear her horrible singing even after the door shut behind her.

"Well," he muttered, "this'll be fun."


	5. Yeah, Victoria's Secret

"All right, now, look sassy!"

Fran pouted for the camera, all the while thinking, _What the hell is going on?_

She had woken up that morning sprawled on the roughly carpeted floor in her motel room, feeling like something had crawled into her mouth and died. Stumbling into the bathroom, she had fallen into the shower and sat there for almost an hour, her head throbbing painfully from all the alcohol the night before. Through bleary eyes, she saw the name and address written on her arm before it was sluiced down the drain.

Upon joining the living once more, she dressed, put on her makeup, and went back to Frankie's Bar. She was early, but that did not matter; Frankie threw open the door for her and beamed widely, saying "Your new employer is here, Fran! Just like I promised!"

Her new employer, as it turned out, was none other than Julien Fentartamis, the famous New York _Victoria's Secret_ photographer. He was wearing European shades and a smart-looking suit, and seemed to be almost ten years younger than Mister Sheffield. She noticed, in her typically thirty-four-year-old-single-Jewish-woman way, that he was very handsome. He gave her a small smile, his eyes raking her up and down. Then, Julien glanced at Frankie, saying, "Good work, man." He looked back at Fran. "You have an agent?"

"Nooooo," Fran said slowly, raising an eyebrow.

"Excellent," the photographer replied. "You're hired."

How Frankie knew such a famous person as Julien was a mystery, but it didn't seem to make any difference.

"Uh, if you don't mind my asking," Fran said awkwardly, "why are you hiring me?"

"You've got style," Julien said, walking around her and gazing at her figure. "You got a body, you've got flair, attitude, everything we need. Come on, baby. This is perfect for you."

Fran was whisked away in Julien's limo and brought directly to the studio, where several anorexic-looking girls were getting makeup applied. The other girls were all twiggy, blonde, and seemed to have a perpetually sour expression on their face until they were put in front of the camera; then, they lit up like a Christmas tree.

"You'll be featured in our evening-wear section," Julien said happily, pointing Fran down a narrow hallway. "But we'll have shots of you in all the different areas. Go to the first door on the right and ask for Beatrice. She'll help you get ready." He gave her a wink. "Can't wait to see the results."

As Julien walked away, Fran hesitantly said, "Thanks!" Then, she trotted down the hallway and pushed open the first door, as she had been directed.

"Helloooooo?" she asked, her eyes darting this way and that. The room was large and full of mannequins that were wearing beautiful, elaborate, complicated nightgowns and lingerie. All the straps and buttons and clasps and laces amazed her. "Anybody—"

She was about to say "home," but the words died as she saw the massive, hairy woman lumbering toward her. "Oh my _Gawd,_" Fran muttered.

"Guten tag," the woman boomed in a heavy German accent. "I am Beatrice, your stylist. Evening-wear, ja?"

"I didn't realize wooly mammoths were back in," Fran said, staring at the stylist.

Beatrice frowned. "Undress, now."

"Whoa!" Fran exclaimed, raising her hands in defense. "I don't swing that way, honey."

"Over there," Beatrice snapped, pointing a meaty finger at a partition. Fran meekly walked over and stood behind it, but only after Beatrice took her measurements. Then, she stripped down behind the partition and waited for the stylist to bring her clothes.

Twenty minutes later, Fran was standing back in the studio, shivering as her makeup was being applied. She was wearing a lacy black negligee, and feeling supremely uncomfortable as the makeup lady put on blush and the hair-stylist tamed Fran's wild locks.

Before she knew it, she was being herded onto a set and being told to strike seductive poses.

"That's it, baby," Julien said, snapping photo after photo. "Be feisty, come on! You're a tiger! Be sassy! Be bold! I can't stand this; you're driving me wild! Be beautiful! Yes, yes, _yes!_"

And Fran, pouting her lips and batting her eyelashes, had never felt more horrible in her life. Who was she striking these poses for? A bunch of teenaged boys? Not Mister Sheffield, that was for sure.

"Come on, Fran, get into it!" Julien said, coaxing her. "You're my tiger, baby!"

Fran determinedly put the Broadway producer out of her mind. _He doesn't care about me, anyway,_ she thought stubbornly, before going right back to pouting seductively for the camera.

* * *

It had been weeks since anybody had heard from Miss Fine. Sighing, Niles put the casserole in the oven and walked over to the freezer, looking for some vegetables to go with it. He sadly gazed at the untouched Hagen-Daaz; there was nobody to eat it with him. At least that was one perk to Fran being gone: he'd lost a bit of weight.

There was a knock on the door, and when Niles opened it, he saw the mailman. The butler eagerly accepted the letters, hoping to find something, _anything_ from his best friend. He was actually starting to get a bit perturbed. He could understand Fran not wanting Mister Sheffield to know her whereabouts, but he, Niles, was her closest companion! Didn't he at least deserve to know? He wouldn't tell anybody.

He grinned as he thought that last part.

"Bill," Niles muttered, tossing the letters onto the table. "Bill, catalogue, bill, letter from Nigel, bill. . . ahhhh!" He let everything else fall, forgotten. "Victoria's Secret catalogue!"

He cast a furtive look around, then grabbed a cookbook, placed the catalogue inside, and pretended to be looking up recipes. His eyes grew wide as he reverently opened the cover.

"Ooooh, baby," he murmured.

Just then, the door opened and Mister Sheffield walked in. "Hello, Niles," he said absently. He had barely spoken to anybody since Fran's departure, so his initiating a conversation surprised the butler.

"Why, hello, sir," Niles said. "What brings you out of your cave?"

Mister Sheffield gave him a sardonic look. "Food," he said shortly. "I'll be dining in my office tonight."

With that said, he walked back out. Niles shook his head, and then directed his attention back to the Victoria's Secret catalogue.

"Whoooo, daisy," he muttered, "what'd I give to—"

He froze.

"Oh my GOD," he stuttered, staring at the page. Smiling sweetly from the second page was none other than Fran, wearing a beautiful evening gown. Niles flipped the page. There she was again, in a winter jacket this time. Struck by inspiration, he kept turning the pages: camisoles, sweaters, turtlenecks, jackets, dresses, nightgowns, and finally—

"Wow," Niles breathed. His eyes were the size of dinner plates. "That's one lovely body you have there, Miss Fine."

"Oh, Niles," a voice said, and the butler jumped; Mister Sheffield had walked back into the kitchen. "If C.C. comes over today, please tell her that I can't work on the new project right now. I'm not—" He stopped, frowning. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Niles squeaked, his voice about three octaves higher than usual. "Nothing at all, sir."

His employer raised an eyebrow. "You seem awfully riled up over a cookbook."

"It's. . . very thrilling, sir," Niles said lamely. "Casseroles make my heart race."

"That's not good, after your heart attack."

"I'm fine. I'll just get this recipe started, and I'll—"

"Give it to me," Mister Sheffield demanded.

"It's not good for your health, sir," Niles insisted, dancing out of the other man's reach. "Please, just trust me!"

Maxwell, however, managed to grab the book, and when he did, the magazine inside fell to the floor. A sly grin crossed his face. "You old dog, you," he said, grinning. "Acting like a schoolboy. No wonder your heart was racing."

Noticing Niles' panicked expression, however, Maxwell picked up the magazine and began to flip through it. Almost immediately, his face paled. He looked up and met the butler's eyes.

"No," he whispered.

Niles nodded. "Yep," he replied dully.

"It's not _possible_," Maxwell said, mostly to himself. He found himself struck by the same inspiration as Niles, and started to turn to the lingerie section, but the butler snatched it out of his hands.

"What was that for!?" Maxwell exclaimed angrily, staring at his friend.

"Miss Fine was more than willing to show you that before," Niles said. "You turned her down. Now you're going to act like a pervert and stare at these pictures?! Shame on you, sir."

"She chose to do the catalogue! I have every right to look at those!"

But Niles' stern glare made Maxwell quail. "All right, then," Maxwell snapped. "Cancel my appointments, Niles. I'm not going to be home today."

"Where are you going?" the butler asked.

Maxwell raised an eyebrow. "To be surrounded by beautiful women," he replied, before stepping out the door.


	6. Angel Wings and Secretaries

Hi everyone! God, I'm sorry I haven't updated in forever. I actually lost interest in this story completely, but then I was struck by inspiration and now have a pretty weird ending in mind. So here's another chapter! Thanks for sticking with me! I've appreciated all of your emails telling me to get my butt in gear. ;)

* * *

Years before, Maxwell had attended several all-boys schools. He'd gone, of course, to the finest Catholic boys school England had to offer. After that, he had gone to the finest boys prep school, where he had excelled in theater and business skills. Then, though… then he had gone to a co-ed university, which was a new specimen in itself.

Maxwell vaguely remembered telling Maggie, "When I was twenty-five, I had two things on my mind: sex, women… and how to combine them."

He had failed to mention how he'd acted when he was eighteen, and surrounded by women on a daily basis for the first time.

He'd been innocent enough, with blameless intentions; all he had been trying to do was find the Men's Locker Room. There he was, trotting down the hallway, all ready for his first day in the Cricket Club. His towel thrown over his shoulder, he strolled along casually, trying not to look like an idiot to the upperclassmen.

And there were the two doors that he surmised had to be the locker rooms. There was nowhere else to go, and nobody to tell him otherwise. This was where he had been directed to go before practice.

Neither door had a sign to designate which was which.

Taking a deep breath, Maxwell decided to try a door at random. He pushed it open, peered inside, and felt his eyes almost bug out of his head.

Skin.

Women.

LOTS of skin.

LOTS of women.

They didn't notice him at first, and he didn't move. Most of the girls were covered by tiny towels, but this was the most of a female he'd ever seen, and he'd be damned if he left before seeing everything possible. He'd never realized that women had so many confusing articles of clothing.

Then came the shrieks, so he bolted out of there as fast as his legs would carry him. One of the girls threw a towel, which landed on Maxwell's head. He did recall thinking, _Splendid! This is a great story for the chaps at Cricket Club!_

This was a bit like that, save the shrieking and the running. Nobody was sprinting away; indeed, they were smiling at him with their brilliant, glossy lips and illuminated eyes. And there were still all of those confusing articles of clothing. He would never understand it: the straps, the buckles, the buttons, the ties, the layers. What was the purpose, really? Admittedly they looked very nice, but they were a pain in the arse to try to undo in the bedroom.

Maxwell stepped hesitantly through the Victoria's Secret set, feeling like Alice down the rabbit hole. There were women _everywhere_ posing, getting make-up applied, running around in nothing more than lingerie. Gulping nervously, he made his way around the feathers and the cameras and the chairs, his eyes peeled for Miss Fine.

All of her pictures in the Victoria's Secret catalogue were pounding through his mind. _Damn that Niles for taking it away before I could see her in lingerie!_ he thought in exasperation, running a hand through his hair. A young woman in a bikini and angel wings darted by him, saying hello, winking at him suggestively.

_But I don't want to see my Nanny in lingerie!_

…_Of course I do!_

He knocked on an official-looking door and stepped in to find a secretary answering a phone. He was a bit disappointed that she was not wearing a bikini, like that other girl. Once she had hung up, Maxwell asked, "Um, is there a Fran Fine working here?"

"Fran Fine?" the woman replied, checking a roster. "Oh, _Francesca_. Yeah, she started a few weeks ago. Sweet girl. Weird voice, though. Sounds like marbles in a blender."

"Is she available?" Maxwell inquired.

The secretary laughed aloud. "Honey, Julien claimed her the day she walked in here!"

Maxwell felt his heart plummet to the floor. "_What!_"

"Oh, you meant as in, available to talk to? Yeah! Third door down the hall on your left, babe." The secretary leaned over the desk. "But _I'm_ available in the other sense, sweetie. If you want my number, just ask…"

Now it felt like somebody was stomping on his poor heart, which was still down on the floor. "Thank you for your assistance," Maxwell said hollowly, backing out of the room and walking, robot-like, down the hall. He could see Fran's name on the door. Taking a deep breath, he raised a hand and knocked, three times.

"Who iiiiiiiiiiis it? Julien?" came the annoying, nasal voice that Maxwell had come to love. "Come in!"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Maxwell quickly counted to ten (to get his bearings) and then opened the door.

Fran was sitting at a vanity table, her back to the door. Maxwell could see that she was wearing a form-fitting mini dress that complimented every damn curve she possessed. "Is that you, honey?" she asked. She was applying eyeliner, so she did not see her former employer in the mirror's reflection. "Just give me two seconds, meaning ten minutes, and I'll be ready for our date, okay? And just let me warn you, my mother's very hands-on, so you might feel a bit molested when you meet her."

_Oh God, this new man's already going to meet her mother! _"Actually, Miss Fine—"

Fran gave a shuddering gasp and whirled around, accidentally smudging her eyeliner across her cheek. "MISTAH SHEFFIELD!" she screamed. "What—what are YOU doin here! How did you find me!"

"It's not hard, when your picture is being ogled at by a certain English butler!" Maxwell stayed by the door, his hands jammed into his pockets uncertainly. "I— I wanted to make sure you were all right. You just left so suddenly, and never told us where you were going."

Fran stared at him, looking as pale as her makeup would permit. "You hunted me down?"

"Er—yes, I suppose I did."

"To apologize?"

The Englishman groaned. "Miss Fine, please, this is very difficult!"

Sighing, Fran turned back to the mirror and began fixing her makeup. "How are the kids?"

"Miserable," Maxwell said honestly. "Maggie won't talk to me, Brighton's serving as liaison, and Gracie… well, she won't talk to me either. Your mother's camped out at our house in case you decide to come back."

"I'm taking Julien to meet her tonight," Fran said boldly, looking at him in the mirror as if challenging him to make a comment. "Thanks for the tip. The kids can meet him, too."

The silence hung between them like a rope. Finally, Maxwell said, "So, this Julien fellow… What's he like?"

"Like you really care," Fran muttered.

"No, really," Maxwell said. "Tell me. Is he… handsome?"

"Gorgeous," Fran said promptly, like a child being quizzed in school. "Rich, fun…" She glanced at him. "And he said he likes me. AND HE DIDN'T TAKE IT BACK."

"But did he tell you he loves you?" Maxwell couldn't stop himself from saying it, and actually gasped after the words came out of his mouth.

"_Jeeze,_ Mistah Sheffield!" Fran burst out, turning back around and throwing her hands up. "Look at you! This is pathetic! You hunt me down like a freakin' rhinoceros, you have the audacity to ask me what my new boyfriend is like, and then you try to outdo him even when you have no intention of being with me! That's SICK! Whaddya need, an ego-trip! I told you how I felt about you! You weren't into it! So stop toying with me, because I've got a date in less than ten minutes, and I am going to go out to dinner with Julien at La Maison Rouge—"

"I could take you someplace better," Maxwell muttered.

Fran looked absolutely furious. "—I am GOING to La Maison Rouge and I am GOING to have a nice time and YOU, on the other hand, are GOING HOME! I will see you AFTER dinner when I bring Julien to meet my mother! Tell the kids I love them, and tell Niles I love him too, but YOU, Mistah Sheffield—" She drew herself up to her full height, made three inches taller by her stilettos. "—I DON'T LOVE YOU!"

Maxwell stared at her, and she at him. They both knew it was a lie, but it didn't stop the fact that she had said it.

"Are you happy, Fran?" he asked after a few moments.

She glanced away quickly, and that told him everything.

"Yes," she said defiantly.

"Then I'll go," Maxwell said in a quiet voice.

"Yeah, you will," somebody snapped. Maxwell whipped around to see a man leaning against the doorframe, wearing European shades and a sleek suit.

"So you're Julien!" Maxwell said heartily, shaking the photographer's hand. "I'm Maxwell Sheffield, Broadway Producer. I was just checking up on Fran, you know. She used to work for me."

"Yeah, she told me all about you," Julien said, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a date."

"Oh! Right." Maxwell stood to the side as Fran flounced toward the door. She didn't look at him as she took Julien's arm and strode down the hallway, wiggling her backside as much as she could without falling over completely. Maxwell watched her go, not moving, because he felt that if he did, he would slump against the wall, slide to the floor, and cry.

Finally, after a very long time, he sighed.

"La Maison Rouge," he said softly to himself. Then, he pulled his coat on and smartly walked toward the exit, passing the secretary and ignoring her entirely.


End file.
